Helping Him Survive
by Searcee
Summary: He had to face up to the death of April, and the fact that he had AIDs he had to suffer through 6 months of withdrawal and he wouldn't have made it without Mark. RogerMark


**_Helping Him Survive_**  
**Helping Him Survive**  
by Searcee  
**Fandom**: Rent  
**Pairing**: Roger/Mark  
**Rating**: PG-13 for angst  
**Length**: 1031 words  
**Disc**: Mark and Roger are Jonathon Larsons', may he R.I.P.  
**Notes**: Hi all :) This is my first time writing (and reading, for that matter) any Rent fanfiction, so why not start with Roger/Mark? I'm quite happy with the result and I hope you all like it! I'm sure I will write more in the future. Feedback is, of course, welcome.

_You'll never share real love.  
Until you love yourself._

It was during the nightmares of withdrawal. During those bitter nights when he lay awake, drenched in sweat but shaking, cold; muscles tight; the stomach aches, the stomach cramps. Tears would pour from his eyes but he didn't think he was crying. He would scratch his skin till it bled. Bled on the already dirty sheets of his little bed in the corner of the apartment.

It was hell.

It was hell but he had to get through it. It was too hard even to get up. Too much to pick up the guitar, because every time he played it it caused him too much pain until he wanted to throw it across the room and scream from frustration.

He couldn't have gotten through it without Mark. He never said it out loud, he never admitted it, and he never even told Mark _thank you_. But he knew that he wouldn't have made it through that hell without Mark by his side.

Mark was always there. He was the one scraping a tiny bit of money for their food. He kept Roger from going back to the drug dealer and spending all his money he had on smack. He would have wrestled him to the ground if it had been necessary to keep him from doing so. He was the one who would hand him his guitar if he asked for it, and would later put it back to rest on the opposite side of the room so Roger couldn't damage it from his anger.

_How did he put up with me? _

He didn't think he could be more grateful to anyone then he was to that best friend of his. He had never been one to be appreciative, to acknowledge something. It wasn't that he didn't care. That just wasn't him. He knew that Mark understood. Mark had that special gift that he could tell what someone was thinking just by looking in their eyes for a single second.

This was the deepest kind of friendship. The deepest kind of love. April wouldn't have seen it through with him. Though he hated to admit it he knew it was true. She killed herself, and left him to suffer the virus. She never had to face the withdrawal. It wasn't his own will and strength that made him get past April's death, and get past that fear of learning he had AIDs. If it had been up to him - if he had been on his own - he might have ended up like April. No; it was someone else who helped him survive.

Mark.

As much as he hated each night of staring at the ceiling, watching the spiders spinning their webs, trying to think of a song - to think of anything but the pain, the pain of everything that had come crashing down on him all at once - there were those nights that almost made him smile. Mark would stand by his bed as he watched Roger sleep, or watch him pretend to sleep, a peaceful second amidst the hours of rushed grief and hurried pain. He would have his hand on Roger's. Mark's hand so warm against that cold feverish hand of his. The hand that could once play the guitar so beautifully. Mark loved that guitar, though he never told Roger that. Roger would wait, smiling inside, when Mark stood by him and he would sense a glimpse of hope, a flicker of happiness. Perhaps Mark could catch the quick smile on his face before he fell asleep. And even after Mark had left the room he could still feel his presence there beside him.

_I couldn't have done it without you. You kept me sane. And most of all you kept me alive. _

And he did get through it in the end. Finally it didn't take much effort to pick up his guitar - even though his fingers had lost most of their muscle memory - and he would walk around New York City without his stash in his pocket. That pain ended.

But with the end of one pain came another. Perhaps an even more terrible pain. It came from inside. It wasn't a sickness. It wasn't the AIDs. He hated himself for it. He hated the way he had to be the quiet one, the one who doesn't get emotional and doesn't have the strength to _love_; the way even he expected himself to act a certain way, just as his friends did. It was like he was disconnected from himself. Like he was two people. One was fighting to get out, fighting to figure out the truth, to talk to Mark, to tell him everything. Trying to love himself for what he was. The other Roger was living in denial, trying to forget the past, trying to love the new girl who had knocked at his door with a little candle, asking for a light.

He wasn't very articulate. He was good at being angry. Good at being Roger. He just wanted that one song, after all, people would think. That's what he would say. But he wanted so much more. And he wanted to tell Mark everything. Everything and more. But he couldn't.

But…there was always that special part of Mark, he remembered. The part of him that made him the filmmaker that he was. The way he could see into people's eyes and tell what they were thinking - all the pain, and all the pleasure. That's why Mark took the weight over everyone on his shoulder.

There was that one day, that one minute just before midnight before the New Year began when Mark looked into his eyes and they were quiet for a minute, Mark with his camera and several cents in his hands, and Roger with his guitar clutched close to him. There was no need for words. It was just them in the single second -everything around them had been put in slow motion - when Roger's eyes said everything they needed to.

_Can he tell what I'm thinking now?_

He could.

+


End file.
